


Mistletoe is a Parasite

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Drinking, F/M, First Kiss, For Science!, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mistletoe, Posted to AO3, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 14:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17061944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: It's Christmas and after some interesting revelations at Molly Hooper's holiday party, Sherlock takes his cue from Mistletoe to take matters into his own hands. Mistletoe attaches, penetrates and absorbs... turns out that is right up Sherlock's alley..._______________________“Mistletoe attaches to and penetrates the branches of a tree or shrub then absorbs water and nutrients from the host plant.” Sherlock’s eyes are nowgazing out across the room, throbbing with people having partaken of toomuch punch and now moving to the Christmas tunes in ways that most certainly would cause Santa to revise his naughty list.John blinks up at Sherlock. “Well, that’s… surprisingly violent.” He rocks to the side, away from Sherlock, continuing to look up at him with a humoredgrin. “Would think that’d be right up your alley.





	Mistletoe is a Parasite

“Mistletoe is a parasite, John,” Sherlock grumbles looking as if he is in a particularly fierce and foul mood. John is not surprised. It is Christmas and they are at a party at Molly Hooper’s house - it has to be close to Sherlock’s personal definition of hell.

“Uh… ok,” John says with that polite smile that communicates that he doesn’t understand but not from want of trying. John takes a drink from his glass of punch, that he is quite certain is more liquor than any other ingredient. Sherlock moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with John, their backs to the punch table.

“Mistletoe attaches to and penetrates the branches of a tree or shrub then absorbs water and nutrients from the host plant.” Sherlock’s eyes are now sweeping across the room, throbbing with people having partaken of too much punch and now moving to the Christmas tunes in ways that most certainly would cause Santa to revise his naughty list.

John blinks up at Sherlock. “Well, that’s… surprisingly violent.” He rocks to the side, away from Sherlock, continuing to look up at him with a humoured grin. “Would think that’d be right up your alley.”

Sherlock looks at John, slight amusement creeping into his features that blooms into a small smile as John continues to look at him. John turns his eyes to the dance floor. Before Sherlock had stormed up he’d just about worked up the courage to invite himself to dance with the short, blonde that Molly said is a secretary on the fourth floor of Bart’s. The young, blonde keeps glancing at him and angling herself so John can get a good view of her dancing, and it is an appealing view, one John would like to assess _up close._

“Boyfriend,” Sherlock says. His voice is bored and laced with clear annoyance. John looks up at Sherlock and sees him glaring at the young, blonde lady. “Investment banker from the looks of it.”

“Well, I was only going to dance with her,” John grumbles. Sherlock arches an eyebrow at John and gives him a knowing look.

“Christ. Sherlock, do you have to ruin everything for me?” 

Sherlock sighs haughtily, looking like his foul mood is about to reemerge with a vengeance.

John roughly sets his cup down on the table “Alright. We put in our time. Let’s go.” Sherlock’s face lightens as they head towards the back room where their coats have been stowed. As they move out of the throng and into the entrance of the hallway they bump into Molly.

“Oh… so… you off then?” Molly asks tentatively. She seems to be struggling to resist the urge tolook up at Sherlock and blushing fiercely. John considers that she may have had a bit too much of her own punch.

“Yes, it was a wonderful party, Molly. Thanks so much for having us but I am afraid we have to pop off.” John gives Molly a small hug which she nervously accepts. Sherlock stays firmly positioned behind John, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes narrow and focused on the wall.

“Y-Yes… no problem… so glad you could come… Happy Christmas,” Molly stutters and gives an awkward wave; trying and failing, to make eye contact with Sherlock before sighing and disappearing into the crowd.

“What was _that_ all about then,” John asks, shooting Sherlock a disapproving look for his greater than usual lack of social decorum. He is generally at least passably friendly to Molly. Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs as he continues down the hall.

“She attacked me,” Sherlock grumbles irritably.

John wheels back in surprise. “Attacked? Molly Hooper _attacked_ you?” John can’t contain his disbelief.

Sherlock stops and turns towards John. “Well, she _kissed me,_ John.” Sherlock hisses the word _‘kissed’_ like the very word may be made of poison.

John laughs. “Oh.. _oh_ … so it’s the _lip_ sort of attacking… Attacking with _the lips._ ” He looks back down the empty hall to where Molly disappeared into the crowd, feeling new respect for her gumption and _something else._

“Would’ve liked to have seen that,” John chuckles, shaking his head. Sherlock locks a penetrative stare on John. His voice is deep and reverberates in the small hall.

“Would you have?”

John is startled. He doesn’t quite know how to take that question from Sherlock. He keeps a smile on his face and side steps Sherlock, brushing past him to move into the bedroom that contains the coats.

“Mistletoe then?” John asks as he passes.

“That was the contrivance,” Sherlock says with distaste.

“So, didn’t go well, I take it,” John calls back to Sherlock from his position next to Molly’s bed.

“Mmm… no," Sherlock says, stepping in the door and looking around the bedroom with narrowed eyes. John rummages through the coats piled on the bed, trying to locate theirs.

“Can’t blame her though.”

“No?” Sherlock looks at John, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“She’s been pining after you for _ages.”_

Sherlock’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Has she?” 

John looks Sherlock over, trying to figure out if this unfathomably perceptive consulting detective can possibly be that blind to the romantic interest of others. Sherlock looks genuinely surprised and confused by this _‘revelation.’_ John shakes his head and smiles up at Sherlock. 

“Yeah, she _really has,_ Sherlock… She really has.” Sherlock’s eyes become unfocused as he contemplates this.

John sighs heavily. “Don’t think they’re here,” he says looking at the pile. He swings around, fixing his eyes on the wardrobe. “She's probably hung them in there.” John strides over to the closet.

“John, no!” Sherlock’s warning lands on John’s ears a moment too late as he throws the door open and sees a flushed and breathless Lestrade, back against the wall of the closet, with the back of a head of curly black hair at the level to mercifully block parts John never wants to see of the older man.

“Shit!” John slams the door and just stands there staring at the ground, eyes wide with alarm and horror. A moment later, as John is still struggling to come to terms with what he just saw, the door opens a crack and a hand thrusts John and Sherlock’s coats out. Past the hand John can see someone that bears a remarkable resemblance to Sally Donovan cowering against the back wall, trying to see but not be seen. John has to bite back the urge to cuss again as he quickly snatches their coats from Lestrade’s hand.

“Let’s just pretend this never happened,” Lestrade’s voice says through the door crack.

“Never happened,” John chokes out. John hurries out of the room, thrusting Sherlock’s coat into his hands as he passes him. He pulls his own coat on as he quickly makes his way down the hall to the front door.

They are out on the pavement before John rounds on Sherlock. “Was that-?”

“Sally Donovan, yes,” Sherlock states flatly, finishing John’s sentence. “Been going at it about three months, since the divorce is final, or didn’t you notice Lestrade’s cologne?”

Sherlock pulls on his coat, straightening his collar. He pulls his scarf out of his pocket and loops it around his neck.

John paces, hands shoved in pockets of his coat, as Sherlock hails a cab.

“You seem… frustrated, John,” Sherlock remarks with confusion. A cab pulls up to the kerb in front of them.

“Bloody good deduction, that, Sherlock. I _am_ frustrated,” John mutters. “Apparently everybody I know is getting on and even you are getting more action than me.” John slides into the cab after Sherlock.

“ _Sexually frustrated_ then,” Sherlock states flatly. John tosses an awkward glance to the cabbie.

“Yeah, thanks for spelling that out, Sherlock,” John grumbles. “And here I thought you despised stating the obvious.”

“The night isn’t over,” Sherlock remarks thoughtfully. John looks out the window, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“Yeah, it kind of _is,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock is quiet and intense the rest of the way back to Baker Street. John considers that he may have said something wrong or hurtful, but his own mood has turned towards ill-humor and he doesn’t feel like trying to pull Sherlock out of his snit.

Once inside, they both quietly hang their coats and scarves in the hall. Then Sherlock stands in the doorway to the sitting room staring at John so intensely that when John’s eyes at last meet his flatmate's, he takes a small step back. He tries to place that look and decides that Sherlock intends to punch him. The ex-soldier works his jaw from side to side as he remembers Sherlock’s fist landing against his jaw earlier in the year when he had hesitated to comply with Sherlock’s request to punch him in the face for his disguise to meet Irene Addler. 

John straightens, muscles at the ready, and thinks a good row right now could be just the thing.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice contains both interest and an edge of warning.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is softer than the doctor expects for the burning look in the man’s eyes. John steps forward, intrigued. They stare at each other, the tension growing, then Sherlock suddenly tips his head back to look above them. John follows his eyes to a little green leafy plant tied with red ribbon to the frame of the doorway.

John laughs, thinking he understands the attitude now. Apparently, Sherlock despises mistletoe and wants the offensive material removed from their flat. John’s muscles relax. 

“Mrs. Hudson put it up. I’ll take it down tomorrow morning.” John goes to turn away when he is thrown up against the wall with a sudden crash. Before he has time to process what is happening Sherlock is on him, his wiry frame pinning John to the wall with surprising strength, as a violent kiss steals his breath.

A chemical cocktail heavily spiked with adrenaline floods John’s body for the battle, washing away the initial shock, as the soldier re-emerges. John fights back; tongue and lips and teeth quarreling with Sherlock’s which seem determined to pull all of his essence out through his mouth.

John has never kissed anyone like this. It isn’t snogging, it is a fight for life with each skirmish escalating the pleasure. Victory comes in moans and brief intervals of pliancy from Sherlock before he resurges his efforts to overpower John. John grabs hold of Sherlock by the waist and wrestles him around so the thinner man's back is to the wall. Sherlock struggles to regain control, but John is determined to conquer. He counters each of Sherlock’s oral assaults, pushing him back into the wall with a barrage of deep, penetrative kisses until Sherlock seems to melt; a faint whimper his flag of surrender.

“Oh, God… sorry,” John breathes, pulling back. He stumbles a few steps away from Sherlock and puts a hand on his head. He feels dizzy and his ears are ringing. “I - I got carried away.” He is still shaking from the rush of chemicals riddling his body. He struggles to catch his breath and figure out what just happened.

Sherlock looks dazed, cheeks flushed against the pale white of his face, hair mussed and lips bruised red from kissing. He huffs out his words, 

“Attaches… penetrates… absorbs.” He smiles up at John, a glint in his eyes. “I could learn to like mistletoe.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reposting of a previously deleted prompt fill (2015). I took it down because it didn't get much interest at the time but I'd thought I'd spread a little cheer by reposting now.
> 
>  
> 
> **If you enjoy this please hit the kudos or comment.**


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